The Saint Sees It Through s-26 Read online

  All the way to the gloomy pile of stone, the cab driver shook his head. When Avalon paid him off, he looked at her with troubled eyes.

  " 'Scuse me, lady, but why would the old dame steal a mat­tress? It don't make sense."

  "She got tired of sleeping on the ground," Avalon told him. "Some people just can't take it."

  She went inside and was directed to the desk sergeant. He was a large man, and the lines in his face had not been acquired by thinking up ways to help his fellow man. He was busy at the moment she arrived before him, studying some printed matter on his desk. He didn't look up.

  "Excuse me," Avalon said.

  The sergeant paid no attention. He continued his study of the papers before him. He held a pencil in one huge fist, and made a check mark now and then.

  "I beg your pardon," Avalon said.

  Still there was no evidence that the sergeant had heard her. He continued to peruse his mysterious papers. Avalon, like those who also serve, stood and waited. Presently the sergeant made a check mark after the name Sir Walter in the fourth at Pimlico and looked up.

  His eyes were without expression. They roved over the con­volutions of beauty as if they had been inspecting a prize farm animal. They penetrated, yes, and Avalon could feel her clothes falling off her; but there was no lust, no desire, in the sergeant's eyes—only boredom.

  "Yeh?" he said.

  "I want to see a prisoner you have here," she said. "His name is Templar." She spelled it.

  The sergeant's eyes said "Dames!" as he reached for a heavily bound ledger. He scanned it.

  "When did he get here?"

  "An hour ago, or less."

  "Nobody's been here in the last hour."

  "Where would he be, then?"

  "What's the rap?"

  "Oh, he hasn't even been tried. No charge has been made."

  The sergeant's eyes groaned, rolled skyward.

  "Lady, he'll be booked at Centre Street headquarters. He won't come here till he's been convicted."

  "Oh. I didn't know. Where is it?"

  He told her. She flagged a cab, and went there.

  As she mounted the wideflight of stairs, she was joined by Kay Natello and Ferdinand Pairfield.

  Ferdinand was resplendent in purple scarf, gray plaid jacket, dove-gray trousers, gray suede shoes and lemon-colored socks. His hands were white butterflies emerging from cocoons.

  "Darling!" he cried, like bells from Lakmé.

  Kay Natello might as well have been dressed in a fire hose for all the blue cotton dress did for her gaunt frame. She said nothing, and Avalon was grateful for being spared that.

  "Myrmidons," Avalon murmured. "What's the rap?"

  Ferdinand put butterflies on her arm and she shivered. "Quaint girl," he purred. "We were down to see a lawyer on Wall Street, and we were just passing in a cab—with the most brutal driver, my dear, simply delicious—and Kay said, 'There's Avalon!' And since we'd been looking all over for you—" His shrug was as graceful as feathers on a little wind.

  "Looking for me?"

  "Yes, come on," Kay Natello said, in the voice which was so like an overstrained buzz-saw.

  "The most marvellous thing, darling," Ferdinand burbled. "Magnamount's going to do a picture around Cookie's Canteen. We'll all be in it. And you're to have a good role. So come along. Cookie wants to be sure you'll play before she signs up with Mr. Pfeffer."

  "Mr. Pfeffer being——?"

  "The producer, dear girl. He's very quaint."

  Avalon stood in indecision for a moment. She seemed to find nothing to say. But at last she said: "Okay. You two run along. I'll join you shortly. At Cookie's?"

  "But you can't possibly," Ferdinand objected. "And surely you haven't anything to do in this dismal place. You couldn't be interested in any of the sordid characters who find their way in here. What are you doing here anyway?"

  "I lost a gold compact and a pair of earrings out of my purse in a taxi," she said. "I thought this would be the place to report it. Not that I expect it'll do much good."

  "It probably won't," Ferdinand said. "But I'll help you talk to these dreadful barbarians, and then we can all ride back up town together."

  4.

  How Simon Templar dressed up,

  and duly went to a party.

  The two young men who rang James Prather's doorbell might have been well-dressed haberdasher's assistants, shoe salesmen, or stockbrokers. They told the goggle-eyed Mr. Prather that they were attached to the Treasury Department and had creden­tials to prove it. One of them, a calm blond boyish young man, said his name was Harrison. He introduced the other, who was red-headed and freckled, as Smith.

  Prather's pale hands fluttered in the direction of the divan.

  "Sit down, will you? What's the matter? Income Tax trouble?"

  Smith placed his blue felt hat on his well-pressed knee and said nothing. He seemed intensely interested in the hat. Har­rison pushed his own hat back on his tow hair and seemed to develop a curiosity about the ceiling. Nobody said anything. Prather remained standing, not quite twisting his hands to­gether; and his lobster-like eyes moved from Harrison to Smith and back.

  Harrison broke the silence lazily: "You know a man named Sam Jeffries, I believe?"

  Prather frowned.

  "Jeffries? Jeffries? No, I think not."

  "He said he was here to see you. He was quite definite about the location."

  Prather frowned again.

  "Oh . . . Yes, Yes, I think I remember who you mean. Yes. He was here, all right. What about him?"

  Smith raised his freckled face.

  "How's Shanghai these days?"

  Prather blinked.

  Harrison said: "Specifically, 903 Bubbling Well Road."

  Prather blinked again. The effect was rather like raising and lowering a curtain rapidly over thickly curved lenses.

  "I don't know what you're talking about, of course."

  "Ah?" Smith said.

  "Oh?" Harrison said.

  "And I don't understand why the Treasury Department should be interested in me."

  Harrison leaned back and looked at the far corner of the room. "I believe Sam Jeffries brought you a package—or packages?"

  "Yes. He picked up a piece of carving for me in Shanghai— an old Chinese monk carrying a basket of fish. Very pretty."

  "Where is it?" Smith asked.

  "I—uh—I gave it to a—well, you know how it is—a girl."

  "U'mm," Smith said.

  "H'mm," Harrison said. "Where did you meet this Jeffries?"

  "Oh—uh—you know—around—I don't remember."

  Smith pushed a hand through his red hair and looked direct­ly at Prather.

  "According to the information that we have," he said, like a class valedictorian reciting, "you met Sam Jeffries for the first time in a place known as Cookie's Canteen on August 18, last year. At that time you entered into some kind of an agree­ment with him, which required a handshake to seal it, and he went on his way. On November 30, Sam Jeffries met you here in this apartment and brought with him his friend, Joe Hyman. Why? What agreement did you enter into with the two of them?"

  "If you two guys would give me some idea of what you're trying to find out," Prather said, "I might be able to help you. So far you haven't made any sense at all."

  Harrison moved his eyes, giving the impression of a Government Man on an important job.

  "Suppose you answer a few questions for a change, Mr. Prather. We could take you downtown with us and make quite a business of this, you know."

  "What goes? AH you've done so far is make innuendoes. You haven't accused me of anything specific, and—well—hell! I don't like it!"

  Smith turned his freckled face directly on Prather.

  "What is 903 Bubbling Well Road to you? What did you say to Sam Jeffries? Who's the guy above you? How do you think you're going to get out of all this? There, my friend, are some specific questions."

  James Prather's cock-lob
ster eyes regarded Mr. Smith with a sort of frantic intensity.

  "But—but—but——"

  Harrison said: "I see. Maybe you'd better come along with us, Mr. Prather."

  Prather, it was quite obvious, searched his conscience, his capabilities, and appraised his ingenuity. He looked at Harrison. He looked at Smith, and his thoughts retreated into the inside of his own mind. From somewhere he gathered a certain nervous courage, and he set his mouth in a quivering line.

  "I don't know what you're after, but I do know one thing. I can stand on my constitutional rights. Unless you have any formal charges to bring against me, I don't have to say anything to you. Good day, gentlemen."

  "Well," Harrison said.

  "Ho-hum," Smith said.

  The two young men got lazily to their feet and eyed the jittering Prather without expression for a long time. Then they went away. Prather was also on his way as soon as he could get into a jacket and grab a hat. He flagged a taxi in front of the apartment house, and directed the driver to Dr. Zeller­mann's Park Avenue offices.

  Zellermann was not happy to see him. His long face would have made ice-cubes seem like firecrackers. He chose his words carefully, as if he were picking each one out of a hat.

  "And so you led them directly to me. Mr. Prather, I con­sider this a very ill-advised move on your part."

  "I didn't lead them to you. I wasn't followed."

  "May I ask just how you know that? In your present condition you wouldn't see an elephant following you." Dr. Zeller­mann picked up his phone, and dialed a number. "Bring two of your boys with you immediately."

  "What—what are you going to do?" Prather asked. He repeated the question three times.

  Dr. Zellermann made a triangle with the thumb and fore­fingers of his two white hands, and rested his chin upon the apex. He looked at James Prather as if he were a subject being discussed by a class in zoology.

  "One of the principal aims of this particular organization, as you know, is to take care of our own. You, inadvertently, have placed us in a position where you are in danger—physically, morally, and legally. We believe that it is to the interests of the organization to protect you. That was the purpose of my call."

  "You mean then you're not——"

  "Going to——"

  "Well—uh——"

  "Liquidate you? My dear Mr. Prather, please! As I said before our prime motivation in these present circumstances is to take care of our own. While we are waiting, I want you to tell me exactly what you told the Government men."

  James Prather's mind was a roil of emotions. Uppermost, of course, was the instinct of self-preservation. He not only had no desire to die, but his every thought was directed strictly towards keeping himself alive. He cast into his mind for motives, inferences, and implications in Dr. Zellermann's atti­tude which might be at odds with that inherent drive which is born into every man.

  "I didn't tell them anything. They seemed to know more than you could possibly expect them to. When their questions reached a certain point I did what I had to do, and that was to clam up."

  "What exactly did they seem to know about?"

  "They mentioned Jeffries and Hyman. They knew that they'd visited me and brought me something from Shanghai. And they asked me if I knew 903 Bubbling Well Road."

  "Which of course you denied."

  "Naturally. But how would they know about Jeffries and Hyman?"

  Zellermann spread his hands.

  "Who can tell? Seamen with money get drunk, sometimes they get into trouble. There are all kinds of situations in which they might talk. Luckily, however, they have nothing to talk about—except yourself. And you would never be indiscreet."

  Prather swallowed.

  "Of course not. I know I'm worried. But if you don't let me down——"

  Dr. Zellermann nodded.

  "I knew we could depend upon you, Mr. Prather."

  And then silence fell. Dr. Zellermann seemed to have said all that he wished to say and James Prather was afraid to say anything more. They sat quietly, not meeting each other's eye. They sat like this for an undeterminable time, and their tableau was disturbed by Dr. Zellermann's blond secretary, with the sleeked-back hair, who stuck her head into the office and said:

  "Mr. Carpenter to see you with two friends."

  "Show them in."

  The trio who entered the office were large hard-eyed men, pushing middle-age. They had one characteristic in common: they were ready to take orders and carry them out.

  "Mr. Carpenter, Mr. Prather."

  The two men shook hands. Prather was nervous, Carpenter matter of fact.

  "Mr. Prather," Dr. Zellermann continued, "has unfortunately attracted some undesirable attention. It's up to us to see that he comes to no harm in the hands of the authorities. Mr. Carpenter, you know what to do."

  Prather stood up.

  "Dr. Zellermann, I can't thank you enough. I——"

  Dr. Zellermann waved away his protestations of good will.

  "Nonsense. One looks out for one's own."

  James Prather twiddled his thumbs nervously as the long black car wound through traffic for an hour or more and left behind the city limits of New York. At long intervals farm­houses appeared on each side, and it may be presumed that birds sang in the trees nearby. Prather had no ear for our feathered friends and no eyes for rustic architecture. He sat rigidly in the back seat between the two nameless companions of Mr. Car­penter, while that gentleman drove expertly and swiftly to their unrevealed destination. The others initiated no trivial conversa­tion, and Mr. Prather was in no mood to start any himself.

  When they had travelled another hour, Carpenter swung down a narrow sideroad, whose pavement gave way presently to a sandy surface. Another turning brought them into a lane which was distinguished by car tracks and overhanging maples. After a half-mile's travel along this road, Carpenter stopped the car. He got out.

  "This way," he said.

  Prather, not without inner misgivings, followed the big man through a barbed-wire fence, across a pasture, and deep into a green orchard of apple trees.

  "Where are you taking me?" Prather asked in a small voice.

  Carpenter turned to face him. .

  "No place," he said. "You're here."

  He took an automatic from under his left arm and pointed it at Prather's chest. The first shot would have been enough; but Carpenter, a conscientious man, gave him a second bullet to make certain.

  2

  The man who went down the back stairs of the Algonquin Hotel and slipped quickly and inconspicuously through the lobby from the service door could never have been mistaken for the debonair and immaculate Mr, Templar who had lately become accepted as one of the brighter landmarks of that pos­sessive caravanserai. He wore heavy black shoes that were cracked and stained and down at heel, heavy black wool socks drooping untidily over his ankles, dark blue trousers with baggy knees and a shiny seat, a soiled white shirt with a dark tie knotted and twisted like an old rope, a dark blue reefer jacket that was wrinkled across the shoulders, patched in one elbow, and threadbare at the cuffs, and a vaguely nautical peaked cap without insignia that looked as if it was used to combining the functions of head-gear and brass polisher. His shoulders sagged and his chest slouched, so that he didn't seem very tall. His complexion was ruddy and weather-beaten. What could be seen of his hair was a drab gray that matched his bushy eyebrows and straggly moustache and the close-cropped fringe of beard around his chin.

  He was out of the hotel so quickly that nobody really noticed him, but he was not bothered about being seen. If any leg men of the Ungodly were watching for him in the lobby, he was quite sure that they would patiently continue to sit and watch. The man who had become Tom Simons right down to his grimy fingernails was prepared to submit his creation to any ocular inspection—including that of the doorkeeper at Cookie's Canteen.

  The doorkeeper, who was a woman with dyed red hair and a face like a dyspeptic camel, examined hi
s identification papers and gave him a stock smile which displayed many large teeth tastefully mounted in gold.

  "Glad to have you with us, Mr. Simons," she said. "Go right in and make yourself at home."

  The Saint went in.

  He found himself in a big barren room which had probably once been a restaurant, for one side of it was still broken up into upholstered booths. The rest of the furnishings were less ornamental, consisting of plain bare wooden tables and chairs, all of them scarred from much service. On the side opposite the booths there was a low dais with little more than enough room for the grand piano that stood on it. The walls were plastered with posters of female nubility and cartoons from Esquire. Near the entrance there was a rack of tattered popular magazines. At the back of the room there was a service bar from behind which two very wavy-haired young men in their shirt­sleeves were dispensing sandwiches and bottles of non-alcoholic throat irrigation. A juke box blared inexorably through the hit parade.

  The room was crowded with men of all ages, some in ordinary civilian clothes, some in costumes that tried nebulously to look like a sort of seafaring uniform. Some of the parties at the tables were engrossed in games of cards or checkers. Other men danced with the hostesses in a clear space in front of the piano, clumsily or stiffly or flashily according to type. The hostesses were mostly young and pert and passably good-looking. They wore aprons with star-dotted borders and Cookie's Canteen embroidered across them. A few other smooth-skinned young men in identical aprons moved among the tables picking up empty bottles and dirty plates.

  Aside from the rather noticeably sleek fragility of the male helpers, the place was fairly typical of the numerous oases that had mushroomed across the country during the war to offer chaste and sheltered recreation to men of the services, in line with the current concept of tea and parlor games as the great spiritual need of a warrior between battles. But whereas prac­tically all the prototypical estaminets were sponsored and pro­tected by public organisations, Cookie's Canteen was a strictly freelance and unofficial and unendorsed post-war benevolence. And in all of that there were questions to which the Saint wanted many answers. . . .

  He edged his way through the tables to the service bar and asked for a coke. With the bottle in his hand, he turned back towards the room, scanning the crowd through the thick fog of smoke that hung under the low ceiling and wondering what his move should be.